I was with Connor in a discount stereo equipment store, where I was looking for a new receiver. All of the walls were painted a shade of institutional dark pink, like you might find in a nursing home. The entire selection was concentrated in a small area of floor space, overseen by a bored young man who looked like a thin, butch lesbian. None of the speakers had their covers on, and the one receiver I picked up was a small Kenwood unit that looked to be as old as the one I already have.

I decided on a pair of speakers instead, but suddenly the owner was nowhere to be seen. I set off in search of him, with Connor in tow. Turning left outside the showroom I saw a long hallway with doors and side rooms along its length, painted the same color of pink. We wandered down it for a long time, and eventually heard the guy’s voice ahead. We finally arrived at some kind of office, where the owner was on the phone with someone talking about some personal matter. I remember thinking, “Is this any way to run a business?”

While I waited for him to finish, I looked to the right and saw a bedroom; apparently this end of the building was his home. He paused his conversation long enough to ask what I wanted, and I told him I wanted the speakers. In a tone of complete disinterest, he said, “Okay”, and resumed his conversation.

I turned to go, and had only traveled a few yards, when Jorie stepped out of a side room on the left, wearing gym clothes and looking bewildered. To our right was a chest high wall that sectioned off what might have once been an open dining area. Jorie asked something about the store owner, and I told her where he was. We exchanged a few more sentences, then continued on our separate ways.